


between a spark and lightning

by Raine_Wynd



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Established Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Highlander Holiday Short Cuts Challenge, Immortality, Inspired by Music, Reveal, Romance, Secrets, Slice of Life, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raine_Wynd/pseuds/Raine_Wynd
Summary: The smell of cinnamon rolls would never be the same.
Relationships: Ceirdwyn (Highlander) & Michelle Webster, Michelle Webster/Original Male Character, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18
Collections: Highlander Holiday ShortCuts 2020





	between a spark and lightning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brightknightie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightknightie/gifts).



> Inspired by “Scared” by Delta Rae. Thanks to N and Rhi for the beta help - this wouldn't exist without your encouragement! 
> 
> Brightknightie, I really hope you enjoy this! Happy Holidays!🎅🏼

Tarone stared at the blood dripping off the knife his girlfriend held. Then, he forced himself to look at the open wound on her forearm, the blood a sharp contrast to her porcelain-white skin. Thirty-four years of life, a college degree in accounting, a career as a financial analyst, and time spent playing role-playing games had not prepared him for this turn of events. Standing in a 1980s-era eat-in kitchen, Tarone had difficulty understanding what was happening. Above the sickly sweet, metallic scent of blood, Tarone could still smell the cinnamon of the homemade rolls they had eaten for breakfast. The room had narrowed in his mind from a kitchen to the space between him and his girlfriend. All he could see was Michelle. Michelle, his china-doll beauty, who hated watching horror films and loved romantic dinners, standing in front of him, holding a blood-stained dagger.

Alarmed, he reached over to touch the wound on Michelle’s forearm. Blood pooled, wet under his fingers while a live current of electricity, similar to a static charge, zapped him. Jolted, he drew his hand back as blue lightning stitched up the deep wound. Breath left his body as he gasped, shocked. “The hell…. does that hurt?”

“Yes,” Michelle agreed, “but not for long.” She winced and waited for the healing to finish before setting the dagger aside on the counter next to the sink.

Astonished, Tarone touched her forearm; smooth under his fingers, the skin where the cut had been showed no signs of injury. “… How?”

“Magic,” Michelle told him. “And no, I can’t give it to you, I can’t replicate it. I was born with it, and no one knows if it’s a genetic abnormality or not. Honestly, I don’t want to have that confirmation. I triggered the magic when I died in a car crash. I’m immortal, unless you cut off my head.”

He studied her, seeing a seriousness he had rarely seen. “You… died? In a car crash.”

Michelle nodded. “In 1995. I avoided a head-on collision but overcompensated and crashed off a cliff. You know the Lake Hills neighborhood, up on Viewpoint Drive?”

“That sharp hairpin curve?” Eyes widening, Tarone stared at her. “You died?” He couldn’t stop focusing on that. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t make jokes about dying.” Michelle’s voice was flat. “I remember the pain of every bone in my body breaking and the paramedics trying to keep me alive. I hadn’t worn a seatbelt and that old sports car didn’t have airbags. I woke up in the hospital morgue with a sheet over my head.”

Tarone prided himself on handling complex situations and analyzing them. “But you’re alive. You bleed like anyone else.”

“He won’t believe you until you’re dead,” Ceirdwyn interjected, sounding like the voice of experience.

Tarone frowned at that statement and looked over at her, seated at the table on the other end of the kitchen.

She shook her head and gestured with her coffee cup. “Don’t look at me; watch her.”

Michelle sighed and shrugged off the knit top she wore. As Tarone had suspected, she had not bothered with a bra. Naked from the waist up, she took the dagger, braced herself, then stabbed herself in her heart.

“No!” Tarone grabbed her as she slid to the floor. Unable to stop her fall, he awkwardly held her as he knelt on the floor. Frightened now as he had not been earlier, he looked up at the other woman in the room. “Ceirdwyn, what are you doing just sitting there?!”

“You’re closer,” she pointed out with calm practicality. “Pull out the dagger and wait.”

The panic that had risen within him eased at her words. Doing something constructive seemed more prudent than panicking, so he followed Ceirdwyn’s instructions. After bracing Michelle’s body against the cabinets, he pulled out the dagger. The force needed to pull the dagger surprised him. The smell of blood was thick, and Michelle’s wound looked fatal.

Nothing happened. Heart in his throat, convinced he was doing something wrong, Tarone looked at the dagger, then at the wound. 

"Nothing's happening!" Tarone cried, desperate, as the minutes ticked by.

"Wait. Sometimes healing takes longer than five seconds."

A minute later, the blue lightning once again stitched up the wound. Michelle gasped for breath as life was restored. “Convinced now?”

Like a puppet, he rose as she did. “Yes.”

She looked at him and held out her hand. “Give me the dagger, please.”

He fumbled as he figured out how to hand it back to her without cutting either of them. She took it, then set it on the side of the sink. She then wet a paper towel, wiped down her breast, threw the paper towel in the trash, and put on the top.

Dazed, Tarone could only watch. “That… that’s not a trick,” he managed.

“No,” Michelle agreed, washing her hands before turning to face him.

“You died, and it triggered this magic within in you. Am I hearing that correctly?”

“That’s right.”

“Before that, did you heal from everything?”

“No. I received all my vaccinations, so I didn’t get chickenpox or measles like the other kids, but I still got colds and the flu sometimes,” Michelle replied. “I fell off my bike and skinned my knees twice. Broke my left arm when I fell off the monkey bars; wore a pink cast for seven weeks. My mom panicked if I got hurt.”

“So… usual stuff.” Reassured by the normalcy, Tarone relaxed more. “But you said you were adopted. What about your biological parents?”

Michelle snorted. “I was convinced my adoptive parents were lying when they said they didn’t know. Turns out they weren’t. Whatever magic makes immortals leaves no parents behind to claim them. We’re the babies found abandoned and presumed unwanted and illegitimate.”

“Nobody?” Tarone frowned. “But…” He turned to Ceirdwyn. “I thought you were her mom, from the way she talked about you. You have the same hair, eyes, and skin color. You look close enough to be.”

Ceirdwyn chuckled. “Much as I might have wanted, no. She spent ten years with me, training to be better at surviving as an immortal.”

“But why? Wait, you said… immortal, unless you’re beheaded. Why would anyone behead you? We’re not in a country where that kind of thing happens! I mean, didn’t they outlaw the guillotine in France after the French Revolution?”

“No,” Ceirdwyn replied. “The last execution by guillotine occurred in 1977. It wasn’t until September 1981 that France outlawed capital punishment altogether.”

Tarone digested this news with a sense of increasing trepidation. “Are you involved in something illegal?”

Michelle deliberately looked away, using the excuse of needing to wipe the dagger with a paper towel. She then returned it to Ceirdwyn, who let it rest on the island like a neon sign. Only then did she turn and meet Tarone’s worried gaze.

“Murder, but I’ll claim self-defense every time. All immortals are players in the Game,” she explained. “You can choose not to play it, mind you, but other immortals will target you and try to take your head. They don’t care if you’re actively playing or not.”

“You can stand on the sidelines,” Tarone realized, “but you aren’t safe. Is there anywhere that’s safe?”

“Holy Ground is sacrosanct,” Michelle offered. “The private school I attended here in France as college prep was built next to an abbey, and they consecrated the whole school grounds. If I stepped off the school grounds, though, the hunters were waiting.”

“But what’s at stake? Why would anyone play this… Game? It sounds horrible.”

“The winner gets the loser’s knowledge: everything that other immortal knows. The ultimate Prize is the knowledge of every immortal who ever lived, which translates to power—enough power to rule the world.”

Tarone stared at her. “You’ve got to be–” His words failed him as he looked at his girlfriend, then at Ceirdwyn. “Not joking, okay, so where do you fit into this, Ceirdwyn? Besides being a friend? You said training, so that implies you were teaching her.”

“I did,” Ceirdwyn said, nodding.

Michelle sent her a grateful look. “Ceirdwyn is the one who kicked my ass enough to make me realize sailing through life on looks and charm alone was a horrible long-term strategy.” She straightened her posture. “Amanda was my first teacher, but I refused to listen once she started on wanting to teach me how to fight with something other than words and charm. She passed me to Ceirdwyn instead.”

“But why you?” Tarone wondered. “What makes you better than anyone else at teaching Michelle?”

“I’m older than Amanda and more experienced in fighting in battle,” Ceirdwyn replied. “Amanda’s best talents are charming and convincing others to help her, though she’s a competent fighter. I’m more direct.”

“Amanda assumed if we became friends, I’d be more open to taking direction for fighting,” Michelle clarified. “That backfired on her. Ceirdwyn’s approach was that we could be friends later, provided I survived first.”

Tarone stared at them. “Tough love?”

Ceirdwyn nodded and shrugged slightly. “Something like that. I’m almost two thousand years old and trained a few people who are still alive.”

“I guess I should ask: how old are you, Michelle?” Tarone turned to his girlfriend.

“I’m forty-three, not the twenty-five my driver’s license says I am.”

Tarone shook his head. “And to think I worried I was too old for you at thirty-four.”

Michelle chuckled. “Yes, well.”

“Are there immortals older than you?” Tarone wondered, looking at Ceirdwyn.

“Yes.”

She didn’t elaborate, which made Tarone wonder if that was a secret, too. “How have you evaded detection?”

“My teacher gifted me with the tools to stay independent and taught me how to stay off the radar of most. No one looked twice at a minor noblewoman who claimed her husband was off doing the king’s bidding; it happened often enough.” She shrugged. “We have been discovered, and mortals who call themselves Watchers record our history. Some of them have even been close friends or associates. They do their best to remain neutral and not interfere with the Game, but they’re people, too. They’ve had their share of problems.”

“But—I remember learning that in history, any time someone’s been different, trouble has happened.”

“Some of us have been burned at the stake or stoned to death for being witches,” Ceirdwyn confirmed.

Tarone shuddered. “Do you get any special powers besides resurrecting?”

“Other than sensing others of our kind, no.” Ceirdwyn grimaced. “We’re not fairies, demons, aliens, monsters, or ghosts. We’re people of all kinds. Not everyone fights to win the Prize. Most of us just fight to keep on living, protect those we love, and preserve what we hold dear.”

“I moved to Seacouver to go to university,” Tarone mused. “Someone told me this urban legend of how the city has protectors guarding it, but I figured it was like those ghost stories you hear about a lady in white on a deserted stretch of road. Every town has those.”

Michelle chuckled ruefully. “My godparent, Duncan MacLeod, has a lot to do with that legend. He’s one of the best players and biggest targets in the Game.”

“And you don’t want to be a part of the fallout,” Tarone surmised.

Michelle nodded. “It’s easier if I’m not associated with him. He hasn’t been in Seacouver, so it’s been quieter. The hunters still expect him there, though, and won’t be satisfied with leaving empty-handed. They’ll take the head of any immortal in their path.”

“The Game is that active?”

“We have to act as if it is and be ready.” Ceirdwyn stepped closer and laid a reassuring hand on Tarone’s arm. “We’re trusting you with this secret. Promise me this: don’t tell anyone. Getting cut, stabbed, and shot hurts as much as anyone mortal. We just will survive past the point someone who isn’t one of us would die. None of us want to wind up as lab rats or modern-day circus freaks, not even for a 15-second Tik Tok video.”

Horrified at the images her words produced, Tarone hastened to assure her. “God, no. I can’t imagine being sane if someone tortured you like that. Do… do you have people among you to help you when you can’t cope? I mean, it seems like a quick way to get locked up if you told just anyone, ‘My problem is I can’t die?’”

Ceirdwyn barked a laugh. “Oh, we have medical professionals among us, and yes, that includes mental health professionals. A fair number of us take religious oaths, too.”

“One reason I attended the school I did here in France was because it had a nun who was a licensed counselor, and she knew about immortals,” Michelle added. “I hated seeing her at first, but it helped me to work through everything.” She reached for Tarone’s hands, taking them in hers. “I love you, Tarone, and I want you to be in my life. That’s why I’m telling you this. So you can decide whether loving me is enough reason to stay. Seacouver is a magnet for headhunters; most big cities are. I fight to protect myself and the people I love, but I’m not interested in being the winner of the Game. That means the people I’ve considered family, like Ceirdwyn, are dead.”

“And we’re not people who’d be comfortable living in the middle of nowhere,” he realized.

“You’re taking this admirably well,” Ceirdwyn remarked. “My late husband didn’t believe me until I’d stabbed and killed myself multiple times, proving I could heal.”

Tarone blanched at the idea he needed that much proof. “That seems excessive,” he hastened to reassure her. “The part you said about dying didn’t register until Michelle showed what you meant. I… my mom’s Irish and my dad’s Jamaican. I grew up with stories of long-lived individuals and paranormal creatures. I’ve loved playing role playing games where I’m a medieval knight. I just… never considered any of it could be true.”

Ceirdwyn smiled. “Legends often have their roots in truth.”

“I figured you’d accept this, given you’re an analyst for a living and like doing puzzles for fun,” Michelle remarked, “but I can see you’re still trying to figure out what it all means.”

“Do we have to change anything? As in, is the reason we’re in Paris having this conversation because you needed to be out of Seacouver?”

Michelle shook her head. “No. I brought you here to meet Ceirdwyn, because she lives here, and this house is home more than anywhere else. I lived here for a decade. Richie wanted me to tell you a lot sooner; he’s an advocate of early disclosure. I wanted to be sure of you. Of us. I also, selfishly, wanted to pretend I didn’t have this secret burning a hole in my conscience.”

“I love you, Michelle. I’m wrapping my brain around this, but I keep coming back to how strong you are. You look like a fragile china doll and people assume you’re brainless and pretty, but anyone who makes that mistake gets your sharp tongue and wit.”

Michelle studied Tarone, still looking anxious. To reassure her, he gave into the urge to hold her tight before he shifted position and kissed her. She sighed into the kiss, relieved. “I didn’t want to believe any of this when it happened to me,” she admitted. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told.”

“Is that why Richie is always so protective of you?” Tarone asked. “He grilled me like an older brother. You’re not related, are you?”

“No, but in terms of relationships—yes. I’ve known him since before my first death. I met him through my godparents, who were his legal guardians.”

Suddenly, the reason for Richie’s protectiveness dropped. “He’s like you.”

Michelle nodded. “He’s a few years older than me, but more experienced in the Game than I ever want to be.” She chuckled ruefully. “He was worried how you’d react.”

Tarone took a deep breath. “Well, it’s reassuring that you have friends like you who seem like normal people. You… I always wondered why you were friends with Richie. He seemed more concerned about racing motorcycles and running that gym downtown. But he loves you like a sister. Even made a point of making sure I understood he wasn’t a threat that way. I sometimes wished I knew what you shared with him, but I guess I don’t have to wonder anymore.” He swallowed past a suddenly parched throat. “I….” Words failed him and he held her tight. “I don’t want to lose you, Michelle. I feel like I just found you—the real you, the one I kept glimpsing and kept wondering about.”

Michelle returned the gesture for a few minutes before stating, “Tarone, you’re squeezing me. Let go; I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry I made you wonder for a year and a half, but I needed to be sure.”

Embarrassed, Tarone dropped his arms. Needing something to drink, he retrieved a glass from the cupboard next to the sink and filled it half full of tap water. The simple routine soothed and grounded him. He finished the glass, then turned to his girlfriend and her friend. Now that his analytical mind had more time to process, he quashed his anger at his girlfriend’s deception. “If I were you,” he admitted, “I’d be terrified of getting involved with anyone.” He turned to Ceirdwyn. “How long were you married?”

“Which time?” she asked.

He chuckled as he remembered her chronological age. “The last time you were married.”

“Twelve years. Muggers killed him.” She paused. “Since it was not connected to the Game, it was harder to accept.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shook her head. “That was in 1995. Before you ask: yes, I’ve been in a relationship since then. My work involves a lot of traveling between here and my employer’s textile mills in Italy and China. My last romantic partner decided that was too much travel, so we broke up before I could tell him why I carried a sword.”

“But had it gone on longer, would you tell them?” Tarone wondered.

“Yes. For what it’s worth, I doubted Michelle could hide her sword from you on this trip.”

Tarone turned to his girlfriend, incredulous he had missed that detail. “You got a sword past security? I didn’t even know you were carrying one! How the hell did you do that?”

“Checked it. You didn’t ask what the black case was for.”

“Figured it was more of your clothes in a weird case,” Tarone excused himself. “You have a clothes obsession, love.”

Ceirdwyn chuckled. “He has you there, Michelle.”

Michelle glanced down at her knit top and short skirt. “What, just because I like a certain style, doesn’t mean I can’t have options.” She paused before asking, “Do you want to see my sword, darling?”

“You have it close by?”

In reply, she pointed to the sword hanging by the doorframe, which he had assumed was purely decorative. When he stepped closer to examine the sword, he saw it was as real and looked as sharp as the dagger she had used earlier. Somehow, seeing it hanging close made the dangerous world in which she lived vividly real.

“Are you warned when someone immortal is near?” he asked, turning back to face her.

“I get an almost blinding headache,” Michelle offered. “And if we weren’t in Ceirdwyn’s house, under her guest protections, I’d have that sword on me.”

“That big tote bag you carry with you,” he realized. “That has your sword.”

She nodded. “I have a couple of custom-tailored coats with sheaths in them for cooler and winter weather, but nobody looks twice at a woman with a large tote bag. They assume she’s going shopping.”

Tarone stared at her, delayed shock setting in, and he fumbled for the nearest chair, which was one of the dining room chairs. “You… every time you go out the door, you’re taking a risk that someone wants you dead and will make that happen.”

“Yes,” Michelle confirmed. She moved to kneel in front of him, so they were at eye level with each other. “You could be targeted because of your association with me or Richie, or while we’re here, Ceirdwyn.”

The icy hand of fear gripped him as a thousand worst-case scenarios ran through his mind. “Do you know anyone who’s lived through that and still stayed with the person?”

“I’d have to check,” Ceirdwyn replied. “The Game seems to go in waves. I’ve had years when no one was hunting me or my friends, and then sometimes it seems like someone’s called out the hunters.”

“So there’s a chance nothing will happen,” Tarone deduced. He turned to Michelle. “Have you had to fight?”

“Yes. Like I said, Seacouver attracts headhunters. I do my best to avoid a fight and don’t seek challenges, but sometimes the hunters won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.” Michelle paused before adding, “I won’t tell you a number or names, other than to say it’s been several. I’m not ashamed to stand here before you and say I won, because winning means I’m still alive.” She swallowed hard. “I’m only sorry that I couldn’t walk away.”

“You promised me my world would change if I stayed with you.” He studied his girlfriend. “This is what you meant.”

“Yes. No matter what happens next, my love, you can’t go back to when you didn’t know about immortals or the Game.”

He swallowed. “I can’t imagine telling anyone without someone concluding I’ve lost my mind.” He took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, considering what he had learned. “I can’t imagine being without you in my life, Michelle. It seems too lonely. Especially since knowing you means I got unstuck from my routine of going to work and the gym and not seeing the world outside because I was playing RPGs online. I could count on one hand how many friends I had and not use all my fingers. My parents were afraid I’d become a hermit. I feared living. Now, thanks to you, I have Richie as a friend, and–” he looked to Ceirdwyn “hopefully, Ceirdwyn, if she’ll let me.”

“Of course,” Ceirdwyn assured him.

“What happens next?”

“Up to you,” Michelle replied. “If you’d rather not continue discussing this, we can sit on the couch and see if your French is up to watching whatever’s on TV.”

Tarone contemplated the notion. “You don’t need me to do anything different?”

Smiling, she kissed him. “No.”

“Then TV sounds fine.” He took her hand in hers and gripped it reassuringly. “If there’s anything you need me to do to help you stay safe, please let me know.”

“I will,” Michelle assured him. He stood, intending to move to the living room.

Ceirdwyn touched his arm, stopping him. She looked worried, as if the road ahead of them was tougher than he knew, but he figured as old and experienced as she was, she had reason to be. “If you need someone other than Michelle to talk about how you feel about the Game or immortals or both, text me. I’ll put you in touch with someone stateside, so you won’t have to worry about international calling or the NSA deciding to snoop on your phone call.”

“They do that?”

“Yes,” Ceirdwyn said. “And before you protest about being an American citizen—it’s part of the security measures that were enacted after 9/11.”

“Oh.” He took a deep breath. “I realize I’m still processing all this,” he admitted, “but I want to make it work. Anything I can’t feel I can discuss with Michelle, I’ll talk to you, or Richie, if he’s willing.”

That seemed to placate her, and she nodded once in understanding.

“One last thing,” Ceirdwyn noted, and hugged him. “Welcome to the family, Tarone Morgan.”

Surprised and pleased, he returned the hug. “Thanks, Ceirdwyn.”

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos, comments, constructive criticism, and similar feedback welcome, even when this fic is "old" and past its posting date.


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